


the hands of a healer

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Female Aragorn, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-28 07:49:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20422454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: She intended to pass in and out of the White City as invisibly as possible. That's how she preferred it.





	the hands of a healer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FaintlyMacabre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaintlyMacabre/gifts).

It wasn't hard to sneak into the Citadel; one could almost say that it hadn't changed in the last few decades. The disarray and chaos helped, in a way, for there was simply nobody on guard to challenge a cloaked stranger. A small boy sat at one gate and looked her up and down and didn't say a word, just gave a big smile, short of a tooth or two, and made no move to stop her.

She wondered what she looked like to him; whether it was obvious that she didn't belong, or if the way her feet seemed to remember the way forward gave her an aura of purpose that stood her apart from the women lining the streets, the children running freely underfoot and the warriors sitting, unfocussed, as they tended their horses before their own wounds. Whatever the reason for the lack of confrontation, though, she was grateful for it; she intended to pass in and out of the White City as invisibly as possible.

It didn't feel welcoming anymore, not that it ever had, but some of the walls had fallen into such disrepair that they were both fragile and imposing, as if the city itself was brittle and exhausted, ready to attack. Boromir's fantasy of the White City in the sunlight, flags flying, was clearly that; she wondered if he'd ever seen these walls actually white, the gardens ever green, the cobblestones ever clean and free of blood. She got the sense that, apart from hasty repairs and the partly erected statues, there had been very little effort invested in the structure itself; what pride Boromir had was based on a dream, nothing more. 

She could have done more for him, perhaps.

The living demanded her attention now; she risked enough to get here, to cut through the garden along a path that still seemed worn by her feet alone, that the thoughts of the dead (even ones who did not follow her, who waited beyond the circles of the world and perhaps knew nothing of the mess they'd left her) would have to wait, until she could walk the Rath Dínen and send her prayers in the proper fashion. She could not let her mind wander if she was to save what she could.

The kingsfoil grew in the corner still, concealed by overgrown weedy bushes that seemed as starved for water as the men she'd left outside. It had been a whim to plant it, to leave something that was actually hers, something that too would pass invisibly until it was needed, and fade when not. There was very little other trace of her here; she'd wanted it that way, but she still felt slighted, as if she should have been loved enough that one of those stones was for her. The survival of her kingsfoil was perhaps only an accident, for the gardens seemed to have had even less attention than the walls. If this had been a land of piece, it would have been pulled out as a weed, perhaps used as kindling, if not burnt simply for warmth. (She can attest that kingsfoil used in the cooking process does impart a rather sharp taste, and is particularly suited to lamb. It occurs that she could simply walk into the kitchens and mix it into the broth, and it would retain enough strength to cure at least the minor wounds. Not Merry's, though, little Merry with the heart of steel and an arm that would never bear weight again. Not Éowyn's, who would gladly pay for her freedom with the unending sleep of the shadow. Nor Faramir, who had loved the city enough to die twice over to protect it even as it shattered and fell.)

But the kingsfoil remained, and it came away from the soil freely when she touched it; the green and silver leaves seemed weightless as she harvested, filling her satchel and her pouch. None bothered her; she could hear a faint moaning, crying, but none yet walked in the gardens, for none were well enough. And so she braced herself, the last of the leaves in her hand as she pulled her hood back into place, and entered the Houses of Healing.

The last time she had been here she was still young enough to have passed as a boy, and she'd been allowed to wander freely, to talk with the men hurt on her watch and cheer them with only her presence, using her appearance to avoid being called away. This time there was no room for such visiting; the only places left to sit were on the beds of the most gravely wounded, for chairs and even the floor were commandeered by those whose only claim to them was that they were conscious or could walk a few steps. It almost seemed, for a moment, that the city's disrepair was being reflected in its people, that such an outcome was inevitable; she remembered seeing a flame in the distance, falling oddly, and the sinking feeling that accompanied it.

She went to those she knew first; if they did not wake, only she would have the blame, only she would be there to grieve. The city had not had a place for her before and there was still opportunity for this time to prove no different, and she would not raise anyone's hopes.

But Faramir blinked and spoke, and Merry rose from his bed and began to chatter as if he had never slept, and Éowyn... Éowyn smiled and touched her hands and said there was work yet.

"And so shall the rightful ruler be known," someone whispered, though for all the world it felt as loud as battle, a thousand clanging swords and the yelling of soldiers, as it settled in the air and over her shoulders, as if a mantle that could never be removed. 

"What is your name?" she said, and the nurse stuttered and paled, her awed confidence gone in the face of being directly addressed.

"Will you bring me more water?" she said. "And then help me see to the wounded?"

This was her life now; her invisibility whipped aside by her gifts and heritage and a world never kind to her before, she would start it as equal to the least of them, and work until the walls were solid enough to bear the weight of those who would follow her.


End file.
